


Lonely Souls

by B_Kilroy



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: (only in the first chapter really), Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Gore, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Disdain for Humanity, Exorcisms, F/M, Fluff, Hauntings, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Ableism, Mentions of sex slavery, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Kilroy/pseuds/B_Kilroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Furiosa died while murdering Joe, she found herself stuck on the world as a ghost, bound to the small plot of land the vile man once inhabited.  Her efforts of trying to leave his home were long abandoned in favor of haunting and driving out tenants interested in moving in, hoping at least for solitude for the rest of her days.  </p>
<p>After Max lost his family and retired from the police force for a disability he got on the job, he decided to move out to the countryside with his dog until he could figure out what to do and where to go next.  He dismissed the rumors of the house's ghost as "character," but he would soon learn there was more to those bumps in the night than a settling foundation.</p>
<p>[<a href="http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com/post/145490426011/i-am-so-disappointed-that-there-was-no-weird-ghost">origins here</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owlship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/gifts).



> This is where a lot of the tags/warnings start. Mentions of sex slavery, ableism, gore and blood. Character death. This chapter could be skipped if I add a preface to the second chapter to summarize this.

Furiosa knew she was going to kill Joe. She knew it the second he walked out of the court room with a “not guilty” verdict after a month of deliberation by the jury. She knew it when she saw the newspaper the next day. _MOORE INNOCENT IN MURDER OF FIVE,_ the headline had said. The picture centered on the front page showed the pale white-haired man surrounded by his good old boys, Kalashnikov and the People Eater. Shit-eating grins on all their faces. One of the jurors came out with a book about the trial, claiming to tout more knowledge about the crime than he truly knew. Furiosa was close to going to a nearby book signing and throttling him for it, but knew she was too involved in the case to do something like that.

She had known the five women. They were family, sisters in every sense of the word except for blood. Furiosa couldn't pretend that she was part of that circle, but she and the sisters loved each other despite it. They had all found comfort in each other, seeking solace from the one thing common in all of their pasts: Joe Moore.

The sisters were held as sex slaves, trafficked by Joe around his circle. If they weren't performing the act, they were being groomed for it. Furiosa was part of the task force that took him down in a sting and Joe took her left arm. It all cost her the job, in the end. Joe Moore's sentence was commuted when he named names, and her department didn't like the fuss she started to make about it. She was given an early retirement for her troubles, officially because she was “disabled” and “didn't want to be a desk jockey,” but unofficially because they disavowed her actions, and she had an unconfirmable suspicion that Joe had something to do with it.

Furiosa hadn't expected to befriend the women. She had first seen them in a passing glance when they crossed paths in the state hospital, her going to the ER and them going for a physical examination. She saw them again when she served as a witness for Joe's case, confined to the witness room before going out to testify. They exchanged glances, knowing nods from that night. Furiosa thought that would be the limit of their interactions.

They met by chance at a small cafe. Furiosa had been killing time before getting fit for a prosthesis when the sisters spotted her. It started as a way to give thanks to Furiosa personally for what she had done, but it turned into a friendly conversation between the six. What was everyone doing now? What were their goals, how would they achieve them? They were all eager to put the past behind them, eager to set their own mark on the world. Furiosa was glad for them, and was actually quite pleased to meet them. Joe may have won his battle in court, but the sisters each won their own over him, and it made her feel that much better about it all.

Furiosa ended up racing out of the cafe when she saw how close it was to her appointment; she _knew_ how hard it was to get one, let alone get a re-scheduling due to missing it. She was disappointed she hadn't managed to get any of their contact information before leaving, but when she decided to show up at the same time the next week, the sisters were all there again and waved her over. And so it went on for months, that Furiosa and the sisters would meet and talk and laugh as though nothing had happened, and she loved every minute of it. It helped to put Joe in the past and put themselves in the present and the future, and everything was fine.

Furiosa found herself alone one day when she didn't expect it. She was there at the usual time they always met: Thursday, 11 AM. The sisters were no where to be found. She didn't think there was a special occasion that pre-occupied their time. No one had warned her – was something happening? There had been times that something came up that she only learned of after the fact. Car accident, panic attack, persistent missionaries who really wanted to spread the good word. It wasn't exactly something to dismiss as a harmless delay, but it was something she learned not to completely worry about. 

Still, she texted Angharad to see how they were holding up. It was disconcerting to get no message in return, but she knew better than to start worrying. Furiosa always managed to put her phone down around the house and forget about it; it wouldn't be surprising if they started to pick up the habit after her. Dag was the next person she messaged, half-expecting a burst of emojis to come flowing through their text log the moment she hit send. But nothing came. Her messages sent to Toast and Dag were left unread. She was in the middle of texting Cheedo an essay plagued with typoes and auto-corrects when she got a call.

“Is this Furiosa Jobassa?” spoke a woman's voice from an unlisted Caller ID.

“Yes, may I ask who I'm speaking to?” 

“Ma'am, I work at Citadel Hospital and you're listed as the emergency contact for five women? Catherine Haywood, Angeline Vanderbilt, Tanya Washington, Cheyenne Wilson, and Dahlia Silverman?”

“Yes,” she choked as she ran out of the coffee shop. Furiosa listened to the nurse tell her that all five of the women were in the hospital and her presence was requested. She was nearly half-way there by the time she hung up. 

On her arrival, she learned of the death of Capable, Angharad, Cheedo, and Dag. Toast was in surgery. All of them had been shot. They had been found in their home, door broken in and the lot of them unconscious and already pouring blood out onto the floor. The nurses and doctors she talked to didn't know anything about the circumstances, and that the police would be the best people to talk to. The only thing they had to say was that Toast was not in stable condition and her future was uncertain. 

Furiosa was escorted to a private waiting room, left to simmer in her thoughts and struggle with the reality of the situation. She cried for the longest time, bawling into her hands until she could hardly put the effort any more. When her tears finally dried, her mind was assaulted with everything that needed to be done. The home had to be sealed, their workplaces notified, their support groups contacted, funerals arranged. Graves bought. _Four plots or five?_ she wondered before finding the will to break down once more.

Who did this? Why? _Why_ them? She wanted to pin it on Joe, but it didn't make enough sense. Moore had been off the radar for a long time – even her connections from the old task force told her they hadn't had a whiff of him since the sex trafficking ring had been broken up. Still, it _screamed_ Joe. He had been on track to ruin these womens' lives forever – why not return to finish the job?

After managing to get some food to eat and eventually wake up underneath a blanket, Furiosa was informed by a nurse that Toast was out of surgery but not expect her to be conscious any time soon. She followed when she was invited to sit in the room. Furiosa was going to be there when she woke up. _When._

The room was stark white and sterile. Toast looked a child settled into the cumbersome hospital bed, covered in gauze with tubes and wires probing around her body. Furiosa could see IVs for blood and fluids, and was only able to make out the heart monitor as one of the many machines that all found their way back to the unconscious woman. Toast's normally pale complexion was exasperated by the blood loss. She looked pasty, and the hand Furiosa gently held was cold and clammy to the touch. 

Despite her vigilance, Furiosa fell back alseep at Toast's bedside. It was exhausting to experience, to sit and watch as her vitals were examined, examined again, and her IVs were changed and painkillers were considered. The doctors had tiptoed around her, using euphemisms for more serious terms, although the word 'hospice' failed to get hidden in their conversation. She hated how they kept her out of the conversation as if she couldn't handle it, but she was too exhausted to even try to tell them otherwise. 

“It was him,” Furiosa heard Toast say as she woke to an empty room. It took a moment for it to register.

“What?”

“It was _him._ It was _him._ ” Toast could only manage to say that before falling back out of consciousness, but Furiosa knew damn well what she meant. It was Joe.

Toast didn't wake back up. Furiosa was removed by the room, told by a nurse about the fact despite how obvious it was, talked down to like a child despite her having seen death before. The doctors would believe that Toast woke once – it showed in the monitors' histories – but they wouldn't believe that Toast said anything, much less something that was meant to incriminate someone they couldn't identify. 

The police didn't accept it either, even though Joe ended up on trial for it anyways. They didn't want her testimony, citing her history and prejudice again him. Knowing Joe, he was probably finding a way to keep her out of it. Furiosa sat on the sidelines, only managing to watch one day of the trial before throwing her remote at the television and breaking it. 

There was a memorial service for the sisters. Few people attended, and those who were present were strangers to her. She stood alone as the pastor spoke some feel-good verses and offered well wishes to the deceased and their loved ones, half-listening as she looked at the portrait displayed at the front of the room. It was a picture of the five of them, all laughing and well. Furiosa wondered if she'd be able to find it off of one of their social media accounts.

Furiosa let time pass without keeping up. Her pension was enough to keep her afloat as she stagnated. Life went on, but it wasn't the same. And it frustrated her. The sisters remained in the back of her mind, _Joe_ remained in the back of her mind. The trial continued, eventually getting to the closing statements before the jury was let out to deliberate. For a month, the jury sat behind closed doors, contemplating the charges that were brought against Joe.

They ruled him innocent of every last one. And that was when she knew she was going to kill Joe.

She waited a month before driving up to his home. In the glovebox was her weapon of choice, a Taurus Judge. The first three chambers were loaded with triple-ought buck shot shells – to incapacitate – followed by two .45 cartridges to finish the job. Maybe she'd kill him with the first shot. Maybe she'd savor it. She could figure it out later.

It was 3 AM when she finally pulled up to the house. The plot was out in the boonies, isolated enough to require its own telephone pole and lamp at the end of the driveway. She abandoned the car to the narrow two-lane road and made her way up to the house. _He deserves it,_ Furiosa told herself. _You've seen what he's done. You know what he's done._ It was a quiet mantra she repeated to herself as she followed the gravel path.

Furiosa entered the house easily enough; Joe had left a window unlocked despite the two deadbolts he sported on the front door. _So much for security._ No lights were on in the house, leaving her hopeful that Joe was asleep. She could make out the faint sound of an oxygen concentrator – a definite locator. He'd either be immediately with it, or she could disable it to draw him out. 

After taking off her shoes, she crept through Joe's home with the Judge tight in her hand. The building was small, no doubt a result of the civil forfeiture of his assets after the ring being taken down. Still, it was dark and hardly navigable. The point was proven when she accidentally slammed her foot against a table, letting out only a gasp before biting her tongue and seeking cover. Did he hear?

A small crash from the other side of the house answered her question, and a series of lights flickered on in the house. She could hear heavy footsteps come her way. Joe was getting close. Now or never. Furiosa sprang out from behind her cover, and what was supposed to be a precisely choreographed event grew out of her control. Both sides fired their weapons, hitting and missing before closing the distance. They came together, struggling for dominance over the other. To one side they crashed, knocking over a shelf. To the other side they fell, breaking a table as their weight overwhelmed it. 

It was then that Furiosa managed to gain the upper hand; Joe's lungs left him starving for air despite the breathing apparatus feeding him oxygen-rich air. He hadn't been prepared. Slamming his gun out of reach, she took aim with her own and fired twice into his head, letting blood and grey matter spill quickly over the floor. Dead. 

She slumped back away from him, laying down in her own growing pool of blood. Feeling around, she found a hole – no, _two_ in her chest. Punctured lung? Probably. An artery had to have been hit somewhere. As the adrenaline rush died down, Furiosa could feel how absolutely empty she was. The floor was slick with crimson, her shirt soaked through like a sponge. She knew that being killed was a possibility, just hadn't thought about it too much.

There wasn't much to do besides lay down and let go. Furiosa wouldn't make it to the nearest hospital. The only comfort she could find was that Joe was dead. _Dead._ Gone to face judgement for what he'd done. Maybe she'd face her own. She didn't care. 

Furiosa heard the sirens come, growing closer and closer to the house. She heard the impatient knock quickly followed by kick and a sharp crack at the door. It burst open, cops pouring into the room. The scene in front of them impressed them in an awful way. Their guns found their way back into their holsters after a sweep of the house and paramedics were ushered in. Photograph after photograph was taken to preserve the scene of the crime. Wide shots, close shots, pictures of Joe and his scattered brains and Furiosa and her punctured chest. Eventually they considered the scene covered, and the paramedics moved to take the bodies.

They took Joe first. _Of course_ they took Joe first. Someone lingered behind to collect the fragments of his head in a black plastic bag, squirming at the give of the flesh. They came for her next. Gently the paramedics moved her body to place it on a stretcher, and on the count of three lifted up. But she stayed. 

Something ticked as Furiosa watched her own body was lifted up and out of her and carried away. Something _awful_ set inside her even though she knew she was dead and could feel _nothing._ She could move despite it all, and slowly rise from the floor to look at the scene. It shook Furiosa to her core that she knew wasn't there, and she moved away from the blood and police without walking, moving through objects instead of around them.

She found Joe's bathroom still lit up after the police had swept through the house. Reaching down at the sink, nothing protruded from her body to turn the faucet. Where were her hands? Furiosa felt around and could very well sense herself, pressing into and through her own body without pressure. She couldn't see herself no matter where she looked, at her feet and around her back and over her shoulder. Even when she stared into the center of the mirror, Furiosa saw nothing even though she stood right in front of it. 

She was a ghost.


	2. Chapter 2

Furiosa hadn't expected this, of all things, to be a result of her actions. She had long dismissed ghosts as fairy tales, figments of scary stories, and projections of over-active imaginations, yet here she stood. Floated? There was too god-damn much to take into account when it came to being a ghost. She bit her tongue that wasn't there, apologizing for the “god-damn.” While she was merely a spirit, Furiosa had no idea what religious implications there were when it came to… all of this. 

But if her existence as a ghost _was_ proof of God, be it a God of one religion or the other, why wasn't she in Heaven? Hell? Was this Purgatory? In many ghost stories, they always speak of how they were doomed to walk the earth until they should complete the task they were set out to do. What was her task? She had done all she could – or so she thought. Killing Joe wasn't necessarily the task she thought of, but it felt like the biggest thing she could have done to go good (even though murder was a sin and revenge wasn't a good excuse). 

But what if there was no God? What if this was… _it_? What if this was her fate, to simply wander Earth until the end of time? If Furiosa had her body, she'd shiver at the idea of immortality, even though it could very well be painless. There had to be a rhyme and reason to her being a ghost, and while she never may find out, she could only hope that there was an end in sight to it.

Were there others that shared her fate? The sisters? _Joe?_ she wondered almost fearfully, but she dismissed it. Joe would have been dead before her, and since he wasn't showing his ugly mug in any way, shape, or form, she had to assume she was alone. Maybe the sisters were out there somewhere. Maybe she'd find them. Or maybe she wouldn't.

She found herself moving around the house, watching the police do their work. “Jesus, that's a lot of blood,” she kept hearing. “Glad that fucker's dead. C'mon, man! You know he did it, right? He had to!” At least she wasn't alone in her judgment. 

She moved away from the scene of the crime and eventually made her way into what had to be his bedroom. It was more hospital room than sleeping quarters. There was indeed a hospital bed in the middle of the room, flanked by an oxygen concentrator and a table with a series of pill bottles, remotes, and what had to be some sort of panic button, a 911 auto-dialer despite his tumultuous history with the legal system. Furiosa didn't envy how he lived.

It exhausted her. All of it, the blood, the careful marking of evidence, the bull-shitting cops, and the fact that she was indeed dead exhausted despite her inability to truly experience fatigue anymore, and she decided to leave. Nothing obligated her to stay, and it wasn't like she was going to be of any help. No one could hear her, see her, feel her. She went right through one of the officers and he didn't react at all. Furiosa moved beyond the commotion to the front door but as soon as she reached the threshold, something stopped her like a brick wall. 

She recoiled from it, having felt the pressure on her invisible body. It was startling, to say the least, to be stopped here. Again she proceeded, but carefully this time, reaching out with a hand. It was a bit silly, to say the least, to exercise caution like this. What, was she going to hurt herself? Need to go to the ghost hospital? It was silly, but she didn't know the limitations of her form. She reached out until the force pressed back against her own. It blocked the door. She couldn't leave.

Furiosa tried again, pressing harder and harder, shoving her entire spirit body into the boundary, but nothing happened. She tried at the windows, at the back door, even all along the outside walls of the house but all were impenetrable. No way out.

There _had_ to be a way out. She was _not_ going to stay stuck in Joe's house forever. There was no way. Is this her punishment? Whoever doled it out should let her know fast so she can just accept it and move on, but if this was happening _just because_ \- then that was just fucked. Furiosa tried every inch of the walls, leaving behind the living, phasing into the living – hell, she even tried to float out through the roof. Nothing would let her leave. 

Why here? What could possibly necessitate her staying where she died? How did it make sense? Was there some sort of handbook of the dead that was hanging around for her to pick up and read? _No,_ of course there wasn't, she discovered after actually deciding to look. She gave up on trying to escape, deciding to find somewhere dark and quiet to sulk until she could think of something else.

Furiosa settled into a closet, not wanting to know what may be in there with her. She sat without moving her legs, closed her eyes without there really being anything there to shut over them. She took deep breaths even though air couldn't possibly move through her. Maybe it was just all one big illusion, and here she was waiting for some big reveal that would probably never come. There was too much to digest about being a ghost. 

_Being a ghost_ even felt weird to think about. It felt nonsensical, and she felt like she handled this too well for it to be healthy. Furiosa pegged it down to shock or otherwise some sort of repression of the fact that she was dead, was a ghost, and things would never be the same. She'd have an eternity to figure it all out, so at least she had that going for her.

She was able to let time pass as she meditated in the closet. It seemed as though the house cleared out, and some hours later another group of people showed up. Taking a quick look around showed her a clean-up crew sterilizing the scene of the murder. Looking out through a window showed her that the cops had only moved outside, and further down the property was a news crew. Go figure. 

Furiosa moved to return to that same dark closet, passing through one of the cleaners as she went along. She couldn't help but hear him as he shivered and let out a shaky breath against it. Did she do that? Moving closer again to the man, she gently reached out for his head with a hand that still wasn't there and he reacted to that, too. He ducked away from the phantom touch and tousled his hair to forget it. “Man, I'm gonna take a smoke break, this is…” The man shivered on his own accord and disappeared from the scene, going outside where she couldn't follow. Furiosa spared his co-worker the same and instead took a moment to process this information. 

She touched him. Well, she didn't _touch_ him, but he sensed it when she passed through him. Furiosa remembered passing through other people the night before who hadn't reacted at all – why was it different now? Did her… _ghost powers_ charge up or something? Did she gain some sort of supernatural energy overnight?

What if… ?

Furiosa moved again towards the front door. She remembered slamming into some invisible force that kept her inside of Joe's house. If she had some effect on the living, then that meant _something_ changed about her essence. Could it have also changed how she was bound to the property? There was only one way to find out.

The front door was closed, but that didn't matter. She could pass through matter if she desired, and would have no problem going right through the solid wood. Furiosa reached out with an invisible hand and inched closer to the entrance. When she reached the door, she could feel that her hand had started to pass through it. Promising. She continued to push forward, but it soon became increasingly difficult. It was like pressing against thick rubber, giving very little and still blocking her from moving any more outside of the house. 

So she pushed harder. Both hands she used now with all of the effort she could muster. Furiosa dug her feet in as if it would help, but there was no friction between ghosts and the material world. The boundary would not give. Frustrated, she moved as close as she could to the boundary, and with that, her face barely stuck out from beyond the door. Her heart ached as she looked at the outside world before her. So close yet so far away, an overworn cliché that suited her too well. _Why can't I leave?_ Progress had been made. The boundary had grown, inching slowly outward until she was able to get just a taste of the outside world. 

If she could feel her teeth, they'd definitely be gritting into dust. It made _NO SENSE!_ It was _BULLSHIT!_ Furiosa stormed away from the foyer, phasing furiously through furniture as she aimed to return to that dark, cramped place she decided to camp out in. A crash made her pause. As she turned, she saw a shattered vase on the floor beside the crime scene worker, fallen from the table she just went through. The man looked around the room, skipping right over her, and decided that there was nothing in the room with him. “Uh… okay,” he spoke aloud to himself as he returned to his task. 

Did she do that? 

Curiosity got the better of her. Furiosa approached a shelf on the other side of the room, spotting a small porcelain cat. Carefully, she reached up and felt around for it. _There_ it was. Her hands still went right through it, but she could tell that that specific space had a higher density than the air around it. She made a grabbing motion at it, unsurprised that her fingers passed right through it and failed to get a grip. Still, Furiosa moved her hand harder, faster, and with more intent, and it might have been her imagination, but the porcelain figure moved the smallest distance it could go.

“Huh?” the worker took another moment to observe the room, having heard the figurine move. “Alan, you back?” He wasn't.

Furiosa took his pause to take aim at the object and swing wildly at it with her hand, hoping to send it off the shelf – but not at the man. She could feel her hand pass through it, and it was perhaps the most solid thing she had felt so far, but as she followed through with her forceful movement, the porcelain dog simply tumbled from its standing position and fell onto the floor. The worker was out of the room before it could even break. “Jesus Christ, Lord!” she could hear him say as he ran out of the house.

While she did feel a pang of guilt for scaring him out, the act of being able to manipulate the physical world introduced a whole new set of possibilities. It meant that there was progress to be made. Furiosa may be a ghost and may never truly be human again, it didn't mean that she was completely gone from this world. If she could train herself and continue to push the boundary, she might be able to leave Joe's house.

The two cleaners came back into the house, making their entrance known. “We're going to clean up here, get done real fast,” said Alan loudly with the intention to let someone else hear it - _her_. “Gonna wrap things up, cause no trouble, and get out of here.” Alan's partner mumbled a soft thanks to him as they got back to work, indeed moving faster than they had been before. Furiosa wondered if they were hourly.

She disappeared back into that dark closet, allowing for time to pass again. It wasn't quite sleep, but she knew that she was able to treat the process as such. Furiosa “shut down,” for lack of a better term, and she'd “wake up” when it felt right. There was no energy for her to gain or expend as a ghost, one of many things she had quickly caught onto as part of the deal. No waste to process, either. No hunger. Breathing was still a freaky one for her. She didn't need to breathe, but it had been something she did all her life as a thoughtless process, and to catch herself forgetting to breathe was only startling because she felt the same all the way.

True to their word, the cleaners were gone soon enough and left Furiosa to herself. The police and media were gone from outside the house, having gotten all the interviews, information, and B-roll they needed to hit the 5 PM news. _The news,_ she lamented with a realization. She might never hear anything of the world again, whether it be news or music or _anything_ that implied the world still went on outside of Joe's house. This was her world now, her present and future. 

Furiosa couldn't handle that. She couldn't be stuck in here forever, forced to make a world out of the home of the most evil man she knew. It wasn't right. This punishment was undue, this law was unfair, _whatever_ kept her here was bullshit. She needed to find a way out or a way to make it work, and _fast._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently I REALLY like italics. that's something I need to work on.


	3. Chapter 3

When Furiosa was finally alone in the house, she felt much more mellow. 

Everything about her was more subdued, including her frustration with the fact that it was Joe's house that the world had chosen to confine her to. She felt lighter, less malleable even though she really hadn't been since she died. After trying and failing to move another trinket off of a shelf, she pulled back into a dark corner of the house to simmer in. Furiosa guessed that she had been sapping energy from the living, and now that they were gone, she was losing her power.

What would happen if she let it all go to waste? Would she… pass on? Or would she only remain as an empty husk? Furiosa remembered how absolutely frightened she had been when she discovered that she was a ghost, and how angry she had been when she discovered her binding to Joe's home. She hadn't expected anything to await her when she was on the brink of death. Now that she was indeed dead and faced a second passing as a ghost, what would await her then? 

Even though there was nothing going for her in Joe's home, and no sign of any changes, Furiosa stayed and meditated and shut down, waiting on some sort of development. She would try occasionally to breach the invisible wall around the home (which had shrunk back to its original size), and she would try occasionally to move even the smallest item (which didn't budge at all), and when nothing changed, she would return to her dark corner, and she would wait.

It was a good handful of days before someone else arrived. A single man entered, apparently having the keys to the property – and perhaps ownership over it. Furiosa watched him as he examined the house, always behind him or out of sight. It was an uncontrollable quirk that she inherited sometime down the line, wanting to keep hidden lest they should see her. Still, she approached him carefully from behind as he paused, glimpsing at the clipboard he held in front of him. _Citadel Bank_ was what she managed to make out from the header. If the bank had acquired Joe's assets, she wouldn't be surprised. That nasty man lost a lot of business and money after the sex trafficking scandal, and any will he had written was probably void – though she didn't think he'd be the person to pass anything on.

Furiosa could see his notes, or at least tried, since he kept moving once she settled in behind him. _He can probably feel my presence,_ she realized. She relented and moved away from him, hoping instead that he'd place down his notes. The man eventually did, heading to the bathroom. She took to opportunity to check out whatever he had been marking down.

_North bedroom: Medical equipment – SELL. Medication – DISPOSE. Biohazards – DISPOSE. Personal effects – DISPOSE._

_East bedroom: OK._

_Master bath: New toilet. Personal effects – DISPOSE._

_Other bath: Personal effects – DISPOSE._

_Dining: New furniture? New flooring. Patch walls._

_Living: Patch walls, otherwise OK._

_Kitchen: Clean appliances._

_Haunted???_

Haunted? Oh come on, all she did was knock over a couple of things. Those cleaning guys couldn't have possibly gave the house that reputation for all she did. Maybe it was only hearsay that managed to get to this man, and he was skeptical to mark it down for himself. Furiosa was tempted to capitalize on the rumors. Who would want to live in a haunted house? Probably worse tenants than those who'd avoid living with a ghost. Maybe no one. Maybe no one would buy the house, and maybe they'd end up demolishing it then. Would she be free? Or would she still be trapped in the house's footprint? Or would the same thing happen as if her energy had run dry?

She couldn't go a damn minute without second-guessing what to do. It was annoying, but it also scared her. It was too in-the-moment, and there were too many consequences to consider that she had no experience dealing with. There weren't exactly books that talked about how to handle being a ghost and what to and what not to do. Furiosa was taking shots in the dark, not knowing where they'd land and what'd happen. The only way she'd learn was to act – or not to act. When the man finally emerged from the bathroom and came back for his notes, she decided to act.

There was a picture of Joe on the shelf. He sat tall and proud despite his deeds, wearing his military uniform he had long out-grown with his bars, badges, and medals that despite his previous valor had long lost their meaning. With the same force and feeling that she had the last time around, Furiosa hurled her arm at it with intent, and in response the frame toppled over and shattered on the hardwood floor. The man was quick to notice. Furiosa could pick up on his nervous energy and watched as he underlined something - _Haunted???_ \- at the bottom of the page. She disappeared again into the dark, letting whatever may happen happen. The next time she came out, the frame, picture, and glass had been cleaned up, and the barriers around Joe's home stayed the same.

The next time she came out, it was only because of the racket that had started up inside of the house. Indeed, as per the notes, the floor was being replaced and the walls were being patched. After all, no prospective homeowner wanted bloodstains or bullet holes in their houses. Furiosa decided not to cause any trouble. God forbid she do something and someone with a power tool manages to get themselves hurt, or worse. She went again into the dark, listening as the workers also came to clean out Joe's “personal effects.” 

They were gone soon enough as Furiosa willed time to pass, and when she emerged from her pseudo-sleep, she couldn't help but notice that she felt more energetic than she had been used to feeling. Was energetic the right word? She almost felt inclined to say _alive_ but to call it as such was folly. Still, there felt as though there were more of her than she was used to. Maybe because she hadn't used any of her “ghost powers.” That was the best answer she had for herself, even though the laws of energy conversation were very much un-applicable to her. 

Furiosa remembered the first night that she had been a ghost, and how she had managed to manipulate the physical world after all the exposure to living humans. She had gained energy and subsequentially expended it. Could she save it? Store it until she could finally overcome the force that bound her here? She took that as reason enough to remain inactive, as far as the physical world went. Furiosa could observe and move, though she was careful to avoid the furniture and walls. _How can I pass through walls and not fall straight through the world?_ a thought came randomly to Furiosa which had some merit, but she knew she'd never get an answer.

She was dormant for a while. Days probably turned into weeks, and those weeks might have turned into months, but Furiosa didn't know for sure. There wasn't a calendar to keep track with, no phone to turn on and see the date from. That was the scariest part for her, losing track of the passage of time. Hours could pass or days could pass, depending on her mood. It wasn't before long that the leaves started to fall, and that got to her. Furiosa tried to keep track of the time, but it was hard to tell when there we no clocks and there was nothing to do for twelve hours waiting for the sun to rise and set. It wasn't worth the effort, even though it cost her nothing and there was _literally_ nothing else to do, so she returned to the darkness and stayed there.

The next time she woke, she found two people in the house: a real estate agent and their prospective buyer – no, _renter_ according to the FOR RENT sign at the far end of the property. Furiosa accompanied them as they blabbed about the place, the furniture, the flooring, “Will I be able to renovate?” “No,” the whole nine yards. Something negative bloomed inside of her when she heard the home's potential resident become more and more positive about the home. She wasn't ready to co-exist with another person, no matter how they might act and what they might do. The act of living was still something that she very much envied, and just the prospect of watching someone go about doing it for years sounded like shit. Furiosa decided she wouldn't.

Furiosa was very much aware of how their bodies felt as she passed through them, and so were they. “Did you feel that?” asked the potential tenant as he shivered, looking around the room. Her formless face stretched into a grin at his discomfort.

“Feel what? Oh, it must be the AC,” replied the agent with a cover, even though it was definitely late Autumn. Still, it was enough to discourage the man from speaking any more, not wanting to seem insane. When the agent disappeared to presumably mess with the controls, Furiosa took action. She had to admit that she felt good walking over to the bookcase in the room, winding up for a healthy swing to knock some books onto the ground. Any interaction with the physical world cheered her up and kept her grounded to an extent. It showed her that she wasn't completely gone from the world, and that she could still have an impact on it, no matter how small.

Furiosa expected the same as the other times: some movement, maybe enough for it to fall if there was enough energy behind the action. She set out to replicate her actions, but apparently packed a bigger punch than she thought. The books, instead of sliding off the shelf, flew off the shelf and past the man. One drilled him in the back, and she instinctively said “sorry” as he cringed at the pain. She was quick to shut up and back away into a corner when the man spun around, but found no one else in the room with him. The man made a weak attempt to mask his retreat from the room as eager to find and meet the realtor again, but she could tell that she left something with the man. 

She didn't bother to follow them to the door of the house and hear the rest of their conversation. While it would be best to know if she was getting a new house-mate or not, Furiosa had a suspicion that she wouldn't. After all, the man had had books thrown at him. Who'd rationally think of renting out a house where you got injured by some unexplainable force? None, she thought as she made her way back to the darkness to hide in. The realtor came back into the room before Furiosa could leave, placing the books back onto the shelf before making her own hasty retreat out of the house. Without knowing how to feel about the day, she shut back down and waited for the next reason to wake up.


	4. Chapter 4

All things considered, nothing had been going well for Max Rockatansky.

Goose, his long-time partner, was killed by a street gang. His wife, Jessie, and son, Sprog, had been lost to the same. They blew out his kneecap, too, forcing the use of a cumbersome brace that made it hard to get anywhere in a hurry. Incidents stacked on top of each other until Macaffee finally let him go from his job as a police officer. Max couldn't find comfort in his pension, though he was paid more still for his disability. His dog, thank God, had been there with him to pull him out of the rut that he found himself in, but there was nothing waiting for him once he was out.

He decided to move away from that town, the place where his past caught up to him at every turn and nothing could bring him peace. The three-bedroom house had long outgrown him. Too many things reminded him of days long gone, dragged him back to _those days_ and kept him stuck in a loop of unhappiness, and he wanted out. So he moved.

Two hours away and not in some shithole were his criteria. Max wanted to leave the area behind him and abandon all chance that he'd fall back onto his patrol routes and catch up with his past. Still, he wanted to keep close enough to return to the graves of his loved ones, not yet ready to let go of his connection to them. The wounds, while inflicted nearly two years ago, were still healing, and he missed them all dearly.

The first place he tried was an actual city, a place embedded in modern civilization. Unfortunately, it meant that there wasn't much in terms of housing except for apartments, which meant noisy neighbors and no real place for Dog to run about. The sex workers prowling the streets in broad daylight hardly served as an incentive, only doing more to help him decide to leave the area alone.

The second place was back in a rural town that reminded him of home, but was different enough for him to recognize it as somewhere new and move on. It seemed nice enough of a place to settle back down in, especially since the home he was looking at had a big fenced yard to enjoy. Max would have stayed if he hadn't accidentally stumbled upon a white supremacist rally while walking Dog through the woods and somehow fell into their favor. He was as good as gone, paying whatever fee his landlord demanded for his early departure just to get out of there faster.

Max ended up staying in the guest home of a local pilot who decided to show his gratitude after Max fixed his broken down car when AAA wouldn't offer service. The house hunting continued after the 6:00 AM flyovers of the plane got old and Dog nearly pissed on the carpet. 

The third place he looked at was out in the sticks – even further into the wilderness than his old home had been. The agent working the property had to arrange for the day off just for the drive off there, that was how remote it was. Max liked it from the start for that reason. In fact, the closest neighbor was half a mile away, and had to drive twenty miles into town to get groceries, which meant that people would hardly be any trouble. It also helped that the home was being sold for cheap. Max had heard that the property was at a “last measure” pricing before the house was to be demolished and the lot to be sold. He figured he'd give the place a shot.

It was smaller than what he expected, even though he knew what the house had to offer. Many houses this far out were either already large or were accompanied by barns, sheds, outhouses, and other effects to capitalize on the land surrounding the property. Not this one, though. The structure was modest, similar to something that could be found in a suburb. It was out of place, but he didn't mind. After all, who would there be to come through and take notice of it?

Max met the property agent, Mrs. Perkins, on the gravel drive-way. She had only driven half of the way towards the house, but welcomed him warmly as he closed the distance between them. A short preliminary look over the front of the property discussed the easement and utilities, and how the house only had a land-line and any other service such as cable and internet lacked the infrastructure unless he wanted to pay for its construction. Mrs. Perkins seemed to go on and on about whatever she could see that was outside the house, which he supposed was fine, but goodness he hadn't even looked inside yet to see if it was worth it or not.

Gently, he interrupted her, asking if they could head inside. Mrs. Perkins hesitantly replied with a smile and a nod, and they turned to make their way towards the house. As they began their short walk, a curtain fluttered in one of the windows, and the small attention Max gave it only amplified the reaction that the agent had. The help he had to offer as she regained her posture was nervously waved off, and they proceeded at a noticably slower pace. Max's brace naturally hindered him, but Mrs. Perkins still fell behind him, and whether it was out of respect or to place him between herself and the house, he didn't know.

Mrs. Perkins was more than eager to let Max take the first steps into the home, something he accepted and promptly dismissed as _whatever_ \- this might be one of her first jobs. That would easily explain the nervousness and attention to detail, so he internalized that explanation and let it go. 

The inside was quaint enough, though scantly furnished. It was cozy enough for him, a living room that branched out into a tiny dine-in kitchen, with two bedrooms down the hall (one with a master bath) accompanied by a storage room with a washer and dryer fit snugly inside. The appliances in the kitchen were rather new, and it looked as though the flooring had either been recently well-cleaned or replaced altogether. His small exploration of the house was cut short as Mrs. Perkins invited him to look at the backyard. Max followed, ignoring the small brick patio in favor of the expansive yard that had been fenced in behind the building.

“Um, Mr. Rockatansky, if I could speak honestly with you about something for a moment?” She followed Max carefully through the yard as he inspected the fence.

“Oh, hmm?” He had found himself caught up in looking for holes underneath the fence that Dog could escape under, even though that should hardly be something of concern at that point. The house was looking good, he had to admit, and knowing as much about the property as he could before making the final decision would be helpful, especially if he intended for Dog to enjoy the enclosed area.

“Well, Mr. Rockatansky, I'm not saying this to scare you off or anything… I truly am glad that you have an interest in the property, but, um...” Mrs. Perkins paused as if what she were about to convey would sound crazy, but continued anyways. “Some of the previous tenants and a few of the contractors who have worked on the home have reported… paranormal activity around the house, and -”

“Ghosts?” Max's attention was fully on the woman with him, cutting straight to the point. _Ghosts,_ he thought. While she could easily be pushing a narrative in order to keep the property unsold, he couldn't help but think back to the death of his wife. In the months after Jessie had been killed, Max had felt echoes of her around the house in the form of a familiar warmth or a friendly presence, always some odd phenomenon that set him in the past until he remembered she was dead. He ended up in a psych session and the doctor talked to him about grief hallucinations – common reactions to sudden deaths that involve false perceptions, illusions, and the action of the mind attempting to fill in the blanks left by the deceased. They were _normal,_ she stressed, a perfectly healthy process for the mind to undergo in the wake of a loss, and he shouldn't worry. 

The day after he came from from that session, his home felt empty again. What little things he had maintained as habit throughout his relationship with Jessie were incomplete without someone else there. Jokes and quirks came and went without an audience, sleep was stirred from without someone on the other side of the bed, and the sun seemed to shine a little less in the morning. Dog, of course, pulled him through tough days that once left him laid across Jessie's lap as she played with his hair but now left him down and out and a little more weary than the last time, but it wasn't enough. The home was too familiar, too open and spacious and _empty_ that it felt wrong to be there, and after long he knew he had to leave.

_Ghosts,_ the word returned to his mind as he mulled it over. Max had never been a strong believer, and lost any tentative faith he had when his loved ones were stolen from him. While that warmth that followed him around the house spawned some skepticism, he regarded the psychologist's explanation as a come-to-Jesus moment and left the idea of spirits - _her spirit_ \- behind him. He doubted that the same phenomenon could affect so many people in the same house, and considered instead the possibility of a settling foundation, or worse, rodents that had wormed their way into the woodwork, which was something he should look for…

“Sir, I know how odd it sounds, but if the previous tenants allow it, I could give you their contact information and they'll tell you the same thing. There's been a history of… _sounds,_ um… objects being thrown around, I know it sounds like a lot of hokey bull, but it's what's happening, and it's only right you know.” 

Max couldn't take the information at face value. Nothing about the house seemed to scream ghost to him. Then again, the tenants before him couldn't all be wrong. But maybe they were. If they had heard these rumors and accepted them, an over-active imagination could more than easily project a “ghost” into the environment. Maybe it was an easy way out of the lease, something they picked up after discovering a fatal flaw in the building, though he wasn't able to spot anything wrong with the home. Maybe it was a ghost. He wasn't ready to accept it, skeptic as he was. If push came to shove, he could probably call in a spiritualist or a local clergyman to bless the house, or whatever. Maybe he'd start to worry once he could settle his mind.

Max exhaled hard through his nose, deciding to discount the information for now and continue looking at the property. Mrs. Perkins was more than happy to accompany him and keep him out of the home, asking him about any plans with the backyard and discussing how no, there weren't any thorny plants around the property and yes, the fence was quite sturdy and built just a few years ago. Max enjoyed the break from the conversation they just had, getting back to the actual prospect of renting the home and getting a place to finally leave the past behind. Despite the growing chill in his body, he was feeling pretty good about it.


	5. Chapter 5

Furiosa had been there for every single showing that the real estate agent hosted. She watched them, walked with them, always sure to make her presence known if the prospective owner was getting too happy about the home. A rattle of a bookcase, a jolt of movement from what mementos of Joe's remained, even a touch if that was what it took to make them second guess their desire for the house. It was a percieved necessity on her part that the agent didn't witness what the other did. The very correct suspicion that they were not alone had to be kept an open secret. It would never be conveyed in words but was always present in gestures and phrases and movements that said “I don't want to live here.” As soon as Furiosa picked up on them, she knew her hard day's work was done, and fell back into the darkness of the home – though she wouldn't always keep prospective residents at bay.

Sometimes, when the house was empty and the beds had gone cold, she'd stir from her dormancy for the hell of it. A metaphorical stretching of the limbs was always in order, as well as the testing of her boundaries. They expanded slowly but surely as time went on and people came and went from the home. It wasn't until the first tenant was gone that she could finally take a single step out of the house and onto the front porch. Furiosa had to have spent days outside of the home, looking out from all four sides of the home, taking it all in. She hadn't seen the world as it was except for from behind curtains and blinds. The occasional peak through the wall would earn her a small sight, but none of it compared to being _out there_ , outside of Joe's home and being able to pretend that she wasn't there. 

She'd have to come back in, sooner or later. Any thunderstorm that rolled through felt like it could deafen her, and any too-dark night was still enough to make her shiver. Furiosa hated finding any sort of good reason to be in Joe's house, even if it was slowly losing the association with that evil man. The people that came and went from the place left their mark, no matter how big or small. Furniture, paintings, appliances, scuffs and scratches, something that game the house more personality than it had before. It was a small comfort, but Furiosa was never fifty feet away from the spot where she died, and that was something that she could never forget.

Despite the personal touches that each person brought to counter-act Joe, Furiosa hated the residents that came and went. Well, _hated_ was a strong word – she had a distaste for them. Jealousy was a large part of what she felt about them. They lived their lives, made their memories, and continuously existed in a time she couldn't fully understand. It wasn't lost on her that time was passing. The amount of time was never pinpointable unless she was able to make out seasons. There was more to the passage of time than the seasons of the Earth, of course. 

Things _happened._ Births, deaths, political events, natural disasters, global crises, war. Things were _made._ Music, plays, movies, books, cities, treaties, empires. The world went on without her, but for how long would it? Years? Decades? Forever? Would the fucking sun expand to encompass the Earth and she'd never know until it glowed hot through her eyelids? She was present on the world in whatever form this was supposed to be, but she would never experience it like a living human being would. The only response to the presence of a living person that Furiosa could conjure was to drive them away and pretend that _her_ world was everything she needed, and everythhing there was. It was completely reactionary - perhaps without merit – but she felt better that way.

And despite how long she had been dead, the concept and implications of being a ghost were still scary and impossible for her to fully grasp. Everything Furiosa had done was everything she knew; anything beyond that was a mystery. Her own death had been eased by the loss of blood, the rush of DMT, and the sense of accomplishment in eliminating Joe and avenging her sisters, but what happened now that she was still here? It all felt so _wrong_. Was there something else she needed to do? Would she be plucked up some time out of the blue to meet a _true_ after-life? Or would she fade into nothing if she allowed it? Furiosa was terrified to find out if something else was waiting for her beyond this half-existence, whether it be heaven, hell, or absolutely nothing, so she decided to stay.

But staying meant _Joe's house._ Staying meant looking at that same spot on the floor every time she came through and thinking _I died there._ Staying meant never leaving, always being corralled back into the home when she was too weak to overcome the barriers. Staying meant _this_ forever. It meant the world would go on without her, and that meant people wanting to live in Joe's house and taint _her_ world, no matter her feelings about it. Thankfully, though, that was the one thing she could confidently do something about.

She had already sent away four series of tenants that she wanted no part of in the home, plus a greater amount of those who had only considered living there, and she had grown exceedingly proficient at doing so. Furiosa's hesitance to act against the people was worn down as time went on, and she was eventually able to get them gone without a second thought about it. Fucking around with them almost became second nature. Sometimes it would be as simple as shifting something mere inches from its resting place, as complex as re-arranging the stock of their kitchen, or as obvious and glaring as emptying bookshelves and cabinets and drawers of their contents right in front of them. Furiosa hadn't found a need to get physical with any of them – at least not yet.

There was a familiar car in the driveway, further down the path than the last time it had been at the home. She knew who it was and what it meant; the real-estate agent had set up another showing. Sure enough, another car pulled in behind the first and a man came out to greet Mrs. Perkins. Furiosa watched through a window as they advanced towards the house, allowing them unrestricted access to the front door. Some movement on her part transferred into the curtain, and she snorted as the agent stumbled in response. The man's failure to respond to the same thing didn't go unnoticed, but was merely disregarded as ignorance.

Furiosa followed _Mr. Rockatansky_ and Mrs. Perkins through the tour – not closely, but close enough to hear everything they had to say. The man had very few words for the home, taking everything in with his eyes and hands as if he could answer any questions he had himself better than the woman who had overseen the property many times before. He took the home's construction to heart, something that told her he was looking for a long-term arrangement (though she knew he could be driven out within a month), even going as far to examine the fence that bordered the yard. 

She watched from the small patio as the agent took the time to inform him of _paranormal activity._ “Ghosts?” the man questioned, getting straight to the point. The conversation earned her full attention at that point. He was on to the situation, and the idea of that almost made her grin. Furiosa might hardly have to do anything to keep him away! 

It was clear that he had his doubts, though, and Mrs. Perkins explained everything she could and even offered contact with the previous tenants to confirm. Furiosa's joyful high quickly dropped off as she watched him contemplate the situation. _Go away,_ Furiosa said in her mind as if Rockatansky would hear her. _Find somewhere else._ After a moment, he apparently disregarded what he had been told, either because he didn't believe the woman or he just didn't care. Her mouth tightened with the idea of a more stubborn resident that was non-plussed by the idea of a ghost in the home he'd live in.

With very little thought, she stirred from her spot on the patio and followed them down into the yard (her restrictions having been long-expanded) and slowly reached into his body. It was something that was usually quite effective at getting a response. Rockatansky certainly reacted, though he rolled his shoulders against the shivers and hardly broke his stride. Furiosa followed him, still projecting her arm into him as they made their way around the yard. He only tucked his jacket tighter around his body and ignored it, even though she _knew_ it wasn't be the wind that was making him cold. 

Whenever she reached out to a human with purpose, she couldn't touch them physically - or at least, she purposefully ignored their body. Instead, she focused on what was inside of them: their mind, their soul, spirit, _whatever_ was in there that she was now able to communicate with. Only with purpose or extreme emotion could Furiosa reach into a person and have them register it. It was a primitve method, but was effective enough to convey an idea: _Uneasy. Unwelcome. Leave._ Rockatansky was different, though, rolling with the punches like he'd fought the fight before.

Furiosa withdrew from the man after he offered nothing in response. No uneasy words, no quickened pace, nothing. She'd have to wait before making a _proper impression_ on him. Her gaze burned a hole through the back of his head as she followed the pair back to the house. _It wasn't right,_ she decided. Maybe she was over-thinking it, but the man offered nothing at all to her that said he had placed two and two together. Maybe he was only barely holding it together so he wouldn't freak out the agent. Maybe he was dead from the neck up. She gave up on trying to figure it out, and instead steeled herself for the possibility of having to bear his existence alongside her own until she could get him to leave.

The showing seemed to wrap up when they returned to the living room, as Mrs. Perkins wasted little time in asking him: “So what do you think?” Her voice said it all, dripping with expectation of another _no thanks, I'll look elsewhere._ She didn't even have the papers to sign for the lease. That was one thing Furiosa was glad to see, and the one thing they both had in common: they both thought no one in their sane mind would live here. Of course, there had to be exceptions, and this man was looking like he'd be one of them.

“I'd like to think about it,” Rockatansky replied with a hint of a smile on his lips. Some amount of hope radiated from his face, something Furiosa wished would disappear as quickly as it could. She couldn't act, not yet. There was still a witness, someone to corroborate any story that needed to be told whether it be to the bank or the church. While Mrs. Perkins had been exposed to Furiosa through one way or another in the past, she tried her best to ensure it was only hearsay and unconfirmable on the renter's part. Anything more done to the man would have to be done when he was alone. 

She watched as they left the home, door locked tightly behind them. Mrs. Perkins nearly jogged straight for her car while the man limped to his own. The sight was disappointing and highly indicative of what was to come. Anyone unmotivated to move any faster was someone to worry about. Her mind was flooded with memories of those that came before and what they did, and what _she_ did, and with them came thoughts of what it might take to keep the man away. 

Furiosa had to stop herself from thinking so far ahead. _You're worrying, overreacting,_ she comforted herself. She had dealt with worse before, had to do worse before. The man seemed simple enough to take care of. If he was smart enough, he'd call the previous tenants and get scared straight. Maybe Mrs. Perkins would be sympathetic enough to turn him away. The world did not begin and end in Joe's home, she had to remind herself as the cars disappeared from view. There were endless possibilities as to what could happen beyond that curve in the road, but the most desired of all being that his car never comes back through.

Of course, it would be her damn luck that it would pull up the driveway in ten days' time with a moving truck right behind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who let me near a word processor


	6. Chapter 6

For all the good he was feeling about the home, Max couldn't help but feel some uneasiness about it. It came from a familiar place, but was something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe it was the sense of finality that the house could give him. While he had only been house-hunting for a little under two months, he hadn't felt at peace ever since everything happened. His goal had been to find somewhere else to live out his meager existence, but now that Max was close to achieving it, he felt rather uncertain.

This would be it. This would be all. This would be his world, if he so chose. He had long abandoned his job as a police officer after too many fights picked and issues mishandled, and had no intention to return to the profession even as part of the office. Office jobs were never his thing, and anything physical was off-limits due to his bum knee. Everything else on the market that he was qualified for was menial bullshit that he didn't have the patience for. Then again, staying at home all day doing nothing accomplished even less than a 9-to-5 deal would. His life had been lived day-to-day ever since he retired from the force, and without any reason to get out of bed, it would almost be the same. Hell, if he wasn't careful about it, he'd be dead before he could see it coming.

Maybe he'd take up a hobby. Something to busy his body and mind. Something he could take up even if he didn't rent out the home and stayed in the guest house that rattled each morning like clockwork. The idea made him warmer – or at least feel at peace again – as they left the yard. Car restoration had always been in the back of his mind. Music had been, too. Jessie had always made the idea of playing an instrument appealing, but doing it now would feel weird despite the tribute it would hold to her.

Max turned away from prospective hobbies for the time being; it wasn't the time or place to have that occupy his mind. His mind had wandered into the future, but it was greatly needed in the present to consider the situation. There was a decision to be made. “So what do you think?” asked Mrs. Perkins as they paused in the living room. He let air rush out of his nose in a sigh and looked around at what he could see. 

It was quaint. It was sound. It was quiet, and it was cozy. The house was big enough for him and Dog to enjoy and small enough to remind him that it was just the two of them now. Commuting to town wasn't an issue to him, and neither was his near lack of neighbors. It was well - _well_ \- down in his price range, and he could easily afford to replace anything that needed it. The only thing he wasn't sure of was if this house could be a home, and if it could offer him peace.

Max didn't know when – or if – he could find peace. He hadn't found it at the old family home, the previous showings, the guest house at the pilot's runway. Who was to say he'd find it here? When would it come, and how? _Ghosts,_ the word came back to mind and added another layer of uncertainty. Mrs. Perkins said it was haunted and even went so far to offer contact information for those that came before him. Was he painfully oblivious to it? Was it something to start worrying about, or was it just a gimmick they're running on him to discouraging him from renting the property?

He scratched at the wiry hair on his face, unable to determine an answer for any of his questions. Of course, he couldn't expect to find any of them yet. Max would need to live there before many of them could be answered. Was that a risk he'd be willing to take? It very well could be. The pilot didn't mind him, and the old house he was trying to escape still stood with open arms. He wasn't beyond the point of no return. Not yet.

“I'd like to think about it,” Max finally responded, offering a small smile. The more he mulled it over, the more it was harder to _not_ find a reason to give the place a shot. Whatever odds there were had been stacked in his favor, such that the worst thing that could happen was being pushed back into either home he was already welcome in, and back to square one. He wasn't afraid to look elsewhere to live, knowing how tedious the search can be from first-hand experience. The house he bought with Jessie was definitely not the first they had looked at, and it wasn't the fifth, either. 

His answer was good enough for Mrs. Perkins, who offered an even wider smile and ushered him out of the home and quickly locked the door behind him. _Emergency,_ he justifed her actions as she rushed down the driveway. Max frowned and continued to move down the gravel path to his car parked behind hers. His leg gave him trouble on the uneven and graded path, an ache that only got relief when he got back into his car and began the drive back home.

The ride was easy, and not spent contemplating the house anymore. He had time to think and had been assured that the property wasn't exactly in high demand. Max used the drive home to clear his mind, even though the home should stay as a fresh memory until he made a decision. There was some amount of trepidation that came with looking for somewhere to live without his wife and child, and something that stuck heavy to his heart that told him it wasn't right. 

Moving on felt wrong. It felt disrespectful. It went against everything that told him that he needed to stay in the past, that _they_ needed to stay with him in head and heart as though they had never left, and that his life had ended with theirs. There had been days where his mind screamed at him for not wasting away right along with them, and getting out of bed felt like sin. Max would always almost agree with the sentiment until Dog came loping around. He wanted fed, he wanted out, he wanted to be played with, and Max couldn't ignore him. Dog gave him accountability. Dog gave him a reason to get up in the morning and start the day. Dog gave him a reason to keep moving. He couldn't thank him enough.

Max eventually arrived back at the airfield after grabbing some dinner along the way. The podcast he had managed to get running through his shoddy casette-tape-to-auxiliary converter kept his mind busy enough for the time to pass smoothly. Max offered a meager wave to Bruce, the pilot, as he passed by the man's house and made his way to the guest lodge. It was small, hardly enough even for one person to live inside. The building had its amenities, though: utilities, bathroom, kitchen, the works. Enough for him – at least for right now.

Dog overwhelmed him at the door, elated to see Max after so many hours alone. The television had been left on, but it was no substitute for a human who could pet and scratch and play fetch. Max was more than happy to show his pet some love after stowing away the food, taking in the excitement that Dog radiated. The two played off each other for as long as they had the energy for it and eventually settled down for dinner. Max sat down to watch The Great Escape – at least, that's what he could guess with a television picture smaller than 12 inches. It didn't matter as long as it was there to take his mind off other matters. 

When the pair were done eating, they went outside to play fetch and take care of some business. The sun was falling quickly, signalling the closing of the day. Max took a seat on the lawn-chair positioned on the tiny porch and rubbed at the knot in his knee. It was tempting to think about what the day had brought and tought him, but he was hesitant to hold much thought about it. He was about to go to sleep and didn't need for it to consume him. Tomorrow would be the best time to reflect, anyway – it was too late to act on any whims or revelations.

Max did decide to turn in once Dog returned from the field. Once a good pat down ensured that he hadn't picked up anything, the two disappeared inside the home (door locked out of habit) and retreated to the bedroom for the night. Max shrugged out of his clothes and brace in favor of a worn-soft shirt and some loose running shorts. After hooking up his phone to a speaker to play some rain and thunderstorm loop, he got into the small twin bed. Dog quickly hopped up into the crook behind his legs, and the two settled in for some sleep.

\- - -

_She was there. Again. And so was their boy. Again. And the three of them were together for the first time in two years. Or maybe it was the first time in a week. Or maybe it was the first time since last night, and he just didn't remember._

_But none of that mattered. They were together again._

_And then they weren't._

_They were on the highway running._ Where's the car? _They had nothing but the clothes on their backs. This hadn't been expected. This wasn't something they prepared for. It should have been obvious. Maybe it was and they were too blind to see it coming._

_The motorcycles and cars were catching up. Toe-cutter's gang of marauders managed to whoop and holler above the rattling buzz of all the engines. Jessie held Sprog tighter and Max pushed the two of him ahead of him. He'd be a barrier, no matter how small and fragile. He'd protect them._

_But he didn't. He couldn't. A laughing man drove his car right through him and into them, and another passed through him and onto them, through him and over them, over, over,_ over, over, over, _until they were gone. He hadn't been able to do a thing to stop them. “I'm afraid there's nothing we can do," said a doctor that appeared out of nowhere, clothed in stark white against the black and red and brown of the boonies. He swallowed hard._

_And Toe-cutter, turning for another go, came straight down the highway again and ran Max down._

_Max didn't feel anything. There was no pain, no anxiety, nothing that often signaled the end of life even though he knew it was coming. There was some small amount of relief at the lack of the sensation and the fading of the world around him. He knew Jessie and Sprog had left him long ago, and now was his opportunity to reunite with them._

_But he didn't. Another breath came heavy into his lungs, and he choked it back out. Max stirred and opened his eyes..._

_…and she was there. Again._

\- - -

He no longer woke with a jump and a reach behind him for his wife. He didn't spring from the bed and rush down to the hall to his son's room. He only woke out of breath and with a wet face. Dog had already stirred, head resting on Max's chest to watch him. Max looked down at the animal and paused before scratching him lightly on the head. “Nothing we can do,” he echoed the words of the doctor before turning out of bed to start the day, no matter how hard it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to post this right now. Might edit it later. Dunno. Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Find my blog [here](brian-kilroy.tumblr.com).


	7. Chapter 7

“I looked at a house yesterday,” Max said to the large gravestone in front of him for the third time in as many months. 

It had only gotten harder to say. Each time seemed more hopeful than the next, but coming here to say that felt like spitting on their graves and leaving them in the past. He didn't mean it at all like that; still, it nagged at him in the back of his mind that he was seeking a new life and they wouldn't be a part of it. _Nothing we can do._ It was helpless to think they could be any more than memories and a slab of granite embedded in the ground. No amount of wishing and hindsight would bring them back.

“Looks good,” he admitted, fiddling with Dog's leash in his hand. The blue-heeler laid beside him, just recently trained to calm down and not treat the graveyard as any other field. Max wasn't sure why he always brought him. Maybe it was for the company. Maybe it was to chase away anything that tried to sneak up on him. Maybe he thought Jessie and Sprog would like to see him. Dog wouldn't know any which way.

“They say it's haunted.” A nervous chuckle escaped his throat. Max could remember the echoes of Jessie and Sprog in the old family home and the day they stopped. _Ghosts_ had rattled around in his mind as the reason for the lasting impression of his family on the home, but had never been accepted. _Grief hallucinations_ had been the new term for what he experienced, and all spirituality was gone from the situation. However, if it _were_ only a phrase used to dismiss it, then what he had felt, seen, and heard had been the spirits of his lost loved ones, and those experiences were all that he had to play off of. “Doesn't... doesn't feel like the home. Right after the... yeah.”

He had bought a family plot. The huge gravestone had been engraved “ROCKATANSKY.” Below it had been marked their names: Jessie, Solomon, Max. It listed their three birth dates, and below the two former, their death dates. Max had expected for his own to be added soon, but that day had not come yet. He wasn't sure how he felt about it.

“Still miss you.” Max reached out to the granite marker and touched their names as though he'd feel something. “Always will. Don't think I won't.” His hand fell off the stone and met his other to twiddle his thumbs. His gaze fell as well, focusing on the bouquet of flowers he had placed at the base of the gravestone instead of the names engraved on it. Max's mind jeered at him for the progress he made in healing from the losses. 

“Just because I'm moving on doesn't mean I'm forgetting. Can't… too unhealthy to stay in the past. There's still time for me here -” _how do you know that? - it was a fluke - there was time for them, too - you're doing nothing with yours - you're squandering it - there's nothing for you_ \- his mind was flooded out. Max pressed his palms into his eyes and counted his breaths. He always felt like he needed to say it, as though they demanded an explanation every time he went there. Max knew they didn't, but _damn_ if it didn't kill him to not say anything.

_Ah! - you sent them away and went in the opposite direction - you with the gun and them with the clothes on their backs - you with the two shells in your shotgun and Toe-cutter with the ten, fifteen, twenty men - her with Sprog and the broken down car -_ and before his mind could continue the downward spiral into madness, Dog wormed his head into Max's lap and licked him. The action tore him away from his thoughts and offered a welcome distraction.

_They know,_ Max forced himself to reach the conclusion. They knew that he loved them, he missed them, and not a day went by without thinking about them, and what in the world he could have done to stop it all from happening. There were times that it consumed him and he could almost wish to forget - but he didn't. He wouldn't. He'd remember them always. After regaining his composure, Max stood from the grave. He offered a goodbye and a promise to return, never finding the right way to depart from the site. 

They were back at the guest house soon enough. The day wasn't too far gone into the afternoon, and while it was tempting to learn more about the property he had looked at yesterday, it felt too much like disrespecting them. Saying he missed them and turning around to keep on moving into the future in the same day wasn't something he was prepared to do. With nothing else on his agenda, Max let the day go by and waited for some other time to do his work.

\- - -

The next day, Max decided to take the agent up on her offer and get the phone numbers of the previous residents. While he expected absolutely none of them to be willing to talk, one of them actually reached out to him through the agent, but never specifically mentioned what happened.

"It's messed up, man," spoke an already-tired Elijah through the phone as if the topic alone exhausted him. "It's, uh... man, it's like one of them shows you see on the Travel Channel or some shit where they got the ghost dudes in there? It's wild. Like, you won't die in there but it feels like some horror movie shit sometimes, you don't wanna be there alone. Hell, do one better and just let it go. Waste of time."

"Waste of time," Max echoed into the receiver. _But it looked so good..._ "Are you sure this is... this is real? Sounds like they should have torn down the house for its troubles." 

"Ah, brother, I don't even know _what_ they wanna do with that property. I think the bank wants to sell it out right but no one's taking the bait. I broke my lease and didn't have to pay for the rest of the period, _or_ the rest of the fees and shit you get hit with, so it's not a money thing, I don't think. You can talk to the lady if you wanna know but I don't know. I put that place in my past and I'm not gonna look back."

Max let out a sign and tapped his pencil impatiently on the legal pad in front of him. He had written nothing on it. With hesitation, he proceeded to ask: "Is there anything... specific you're willing to share? If not, we can-"

" _Oh,_ well, uh... stuff's gonna move. You're gonna hear some stuff. You're gonna feel like - like, you're gonna feel emotions that aren't yours. It gets weird. Sometimes you'll manage to forget shit's going on, but something else will come at you and make you remember you're living in a haunted home.” Max heard someone call for the man. “Sir, I gotta run, sorry if that's not all you wanted to know, but you can-”

“No, it's fine, I've... I've got everything I need, thank you. Take care.”

“Alright, take care yourself,” Elijah offered a goodbye before hanging up. Max similarly disconnected and laid his phone on the table. The legal pad was still empty. He tapped the pad again with his pencil, and in the end put the items away. It wasn't worth writing down _hear, see, feel_ \- after all, that's about as unspecific as it could get. Everything and nothing he wanted to know. Still, he accepted Elijah's words for what they were, and held them for contemplation. 

_This is it,_ Max huffed. _This is all I know._ It still seemed too easy to dismiss it all and give it a shot. It was absolutely insane to have to take any of this into account in a real-life situation. The whole thing felt like a horror movie beginning to unravel, where the unsuspecting - or uncaring - homeowner moves in and fucking dies, because that's how they all end. 

The thought gave him pause, though. What if it _was_ some kind of fake, gimmicked house that wasn't actually haunted? What if it were some kind of Truman Show-esque deal, where each new resident was a season of the show? Max almost had to laugh at himself for even considering that possibility; it was as ridiculous as the house itself actually being haunted. Still, the thought wasn't quite gone from his head. He fetched his laptop and decided to look up the address. After all, what was the worst thing he could find?

Oh. He could find _that._

It was an old news article from 2012. A botched “home invasion” had led to the death of both the intruder and the homeowner. The homeowner's name rang a bell. He had heard of Joe Moore before. Joe made big headlines, first for the sex trafficking ring, second for his involvement in the murder trial. It would have been hard to find anyone in law enforcement who hadn't heard of him.

Max felt like he should know the other. Furiosa Jobassa. According to the article, she had been part of the sting operation that took down the trafficking ring, and lost an arm for her troubles. Her targeting of Moore was spinned as "usurping the legal process" and done for an "unknown motive," but if he had to guess, there was probably a true motive kept out on purpose. It was no secret that Joe Moore had friends in high places, and if his influence reached into the media, there was no reason to believe what the article said.

_Two people died in that home._ That was the home, alright. There was a picture of the property, the building, the broken-in window. He would be moving into a place where people died, and where people said there were ghosts. The claim finally gained some legitimacy, and could no longer be ignored. The house, he conceded, could actually be haunted.

Max groaned and leaned his head into one hand, petting a responding Dog with the other. He had no idea what to do. Should he give it a shot anyways, despite what could happen? Should he move on to some other home, even if it means compromising things that he specifically desired in a home? Should he move back to the family home? The thought of that alone made him shiver, but he wasn't prepared at all to say no.

Could he just stay here? In the little shack at the airfield? It felt like Limbo. It was a stepping stone between the past and the future, never meant to be a permanent residence. The home took on that air, too. The building was coming close to being cramped, and the airfield saw regular usage from Bruce, who he wouldn't dare ask to fly at more reasonable hours. Max hadn't been paying rent, either because Bruce didn't want it or had simply forgotten to ask. By his own mark, his welcome had been overstayed.

A knock at the door caught his attention. It hardly took ten steps to cross from one end of the house to the other and look through the peephole. _Mmh, speak of the devil..._


	8. Chapter 8

Max couldn't say that he blamed Bruce, not at all. His father had gotten hurt and needed to a place to stay that was somewhere close to family, and Bruce was that family, and the little shack on the airstrip was that somewhere. He understood what it meant to take care of family.

_Ten days_ was the deadline Bruce gave Max to move - that is, ten days until his father was due to arrive. Legally, established residents had thirty days' notice minimum, but he wasn't about to fight it. Max knew his time was limited at the airfield; it had only been a matter of when he'd be gone from the place. No rent, no paying for utilities, just a lot of goodwill traded between one another that had finally run its course. He wasn't mad, but his eviction meant that _the house_ he had been looking at would need to be heavily weighted, or it was back to motels. Or home.

_Home,_ the word left a sour taste in his mouth. _Home is where the heart is,_ the old expression went, and Max had long adhered to it. It was with Jessie, with Sprog, with Jim at times that he had found and felt at home, and they were gone. The residence marked down as his legal address stopped being a home to him after it all happened. It was too big, too empty, too full of happy memories and echoes and regret.

Max still made the journey out to his old home, leaving Dog at the shack on the airstrip. Usually, his visits were relegated to once a week to collect and send mail, always expedited, always over with as soon as possible. This journey, however, was different. It was hardly akin to the ones he made on rare occasions to fetch something from inside the house that was absolutely necessary. Entering the house became a different beast to deal with, and required much more strength than he was sure he had.

He knew what he’d see. Inside the house, Max would see everything as it was before it all went to shit. Seeing everything covered in dust and dog hair was always enough to tell Max that it had indeed been some time. He wasn’t sure if it had been months or years - he dreaded looking at the calendar or his phone to try to pinpoint _this is the day my family died_ \- but he’d never get any closer to changing what happened. There was no taking any of it back, no saving them, and no… no forgetting. Living in the house meant coming to terms with all of that under different circumstances, and he wasn’t sure if he could do it.

Looking up the staircase to the porch should have been the easiest thing he did all trip. Instead, he saw _her._ He’d seen her before, just like that, in one of his white button-up shirts, standing proudly at the top step as she carefully signed _crazy for you._ Max had to look down, off to the side, somewhere else to shake off the sight that he knew had no place in present reality. It was a figment of his imagination - _had to be,_ he tried to convince himself as he climbed up to the main floor. He’d seen her body, and it damn sure wasn’t up and walking around their house.

Whether the phantom had dissipated or simply stepped aside, Max reached the threshold and forced himself to step through the doorway, planting his feet firmly inside the house. 

It was just as he had left it, if not covered in more dust. The plants - _her plants_ , he had long accepted would die, and were now shriveled and brown. They camouflaged themselves well against the wood paneling, and he found himself lamenting the loss of the lush green they had to offer. All that was left to attract the eye were the tapestries and the red beanbag chairs in the living room. He did his best to avoid the sight; it reminded him of Jim. 

Like clockwork, he performed a cursory examination of the utilities - water, electricity, appliances, phone... All worked, which was a good sign that his money was getting to the right places. Livable, if not for the clearing out of food, toiletries, and just about everything he needed to go along his day-to-day life. Everything else was… 

Max stopped himself before he could say _easy to leave behind._ There were memories in so much of what still remained. Pictures, toys, stories that told themselves through discarded clothes and the pile of CDs tossed aside until the right one was found and the small transceiver on the bedside table still set to the police station’s broadcast frequency. For all the good he could see, the bad came in right behind it. The house was tainted by what time he spent in the limbo that came after all that had happened, and cleansing the place of it meant wiping the entire slate clean. 

If that was what he needed to do to make the home livable again, then it had to be done.

He was exhausted before he picked up even the smallest thing with the goal of putting it in its place; their bed was incredibly inviting, and he knew just how he’d fall onto it. Max would collapse over his side and overlap onto _hers,_ even though her scent was long gone from the sheets. Knowing him, he’d stay there for hours until he fell asleep or found a more compelling reason to get up. Without Dog and anyone with an urgent need to call his cell, he knew that it would be too long before there would be an excuse.

To convince himself not to collapse, he told himself he would start small. Start with something incidental, something that - if either of them had done what they should have - wouldn’t be a problem. Stuff that just hadn’t been put away. Clothes - including hers, which had no place in the house. Their CDs - half of which he couldn’t stand to listen to anymore considering so many of them were full of _their_ songs. One thing or another that left Max half-expecting for Jessie to come around for. 

_Rearrange the furniture,_ Max considered. Changing the _feng shui_ might help things, shift the energy, might prevent him from remembering her draped over something like so or anything else that had the potential to conjure any unwanted memory. He was frustrated to think of any of them as unwanted, but he knew that if he wanted true change, they would all need to be put under lock and key until he was prepared to handle them. Looking for someplace else to live had given him an excuse not to. 

He set out about it mechanically. The first thing Max did was turn on the radio, and turn it up _loud_ \- create a sensory focal point that he couldn’t drown out. It was even better that it was shitty abrasive music that he had never taken a liking to, and he allowed himself to mentally pick apart why absolutely no one had any business liking it as he cleaned up. 

He forced himself not to fold her clothes; they went into drawers and containers as quickly as they could be thrown in. Max had his own storage, and knew he’d never see her stuff again unless it was on purpose, and to finally pass them on. The sheets? They went in the washer/dryer unit, one of the few splurges she had been on board for - neither of them were fond of laundry. Their CDs were put back into the display, and the saxophone reed he uncovered was thrown into the bin quicker than he would have liked. The quilts and woven blankets had always been her thing, but he’d let them stay. Without them, the house would be too bare. Many more things could bear to go in their stead; he wanted to give her no reason to come through the door, and for him to expect it.

Some time passed as he cleaned, and it was indeed mindless enough to make substantial progress. Hints of _her_ were put away where he’d have no business looking. The beanbag chairs were set out by the street; someone else could make use of them. Moving the furniture was a thought Max considered, but was dismissed after his bad knee popped and let out an elastic groan. Maybe he could get some of the boys from the station down to help if he could keep from making it weird. Max hadn’t seen much of them since he retired - maybe seeing them would be good for him. It was a nice idea, he had to admit to himself. So nice, in fact, that once the thought passed, he was suddenly grounded in the bedroom, and he had Sprog’s baby monitor in his hand. 

Max didn’t mean to pick up the baby monitor. All he knew was that he was cleaning off the nightstand, and it was in the way, but now the top was clean and he had the monitor in his hand. It took all the power he had to not put it back down, and it took even more to go and put it in the nursery. The action was a very clear signal that his son was no longer with him, and there would never be anything loud enough to drown that out. In the end, it was better that it was put away. He had been used to waking up in the middle of the night thinking that something had come from the monitor, only to realize that it was some cruel cosmic joke. Without it in the room, there’d be no mistaking it, no thinking he heard something, but its absence would just be another sign that there was no one left to look after.

He took a break - a well deserved one, he told himself as he drove into town for lunch. There was no need to burn himself out just yet. He could do it when he was moved back in if he needed to. With Bruce’s ultimatum, he was working with a time constraint that he couldn’t afford to fumble with. These next ten days couldn’t be a minefield, even if he knew where he was stepping. 

Max managed to snag his usual order from the diner before he retreated to his car to eat in private. Max no longer entertained the idea of meeting someone familiar. _”Hey, man, how’ve ya been?”_ he could imagine someone upbeat but well-meaning interrupting the meal, forcing him to swallow and lie through his teeth that he was doing alright, and God forbid they wanted anything more out of him.

The break away from the house helped to numb but not forget. Max knew that the dread would only stick with him if he went back, and he’d fret over every little thing as though it would be the next baby monitor. If he were smart, he’d go back to the shack and wait until tomorrow to return. There was still the need to pack up what he had _there_ , but knew that it was better to fully prepare the house before anything came back in. He could only let out an annoyed sigh in response to the idea, but knew it was for the best. When Max was finished with the meal, he wasted no time; the bag of trash was quickly disposed of and he was soon back on the road again.

Returning to the house went better than he expected; he was tempered against what it had to offer. The stairway up to the main floor was conquered easily (if _easily_ was simply looking at his boots as he made his way up). Most of the evidence of a normal family life had been put away or quarantined. All there was left to do was dust and vacuum. It was the only thing keeping him from bringing Dog.

He dusted everywhere. There was hardly a spot he could find that was clean, almost expecting to open the refrigerator again to find it full of the stuff. By the time Max considered himself half-way done, he had already beat out his rag five times over the porch rail. It wasn’t as though he had any room to complain; it was his fault that it had gotten so bad. 

He was dusting off the top of a bookshelf when the phone rang. It only made him grumble, choosing not to move from his place on top of the step-ladder. If it was important, they’d leave a message. The thought of them leaving a message made him bemoan the fact that there had to be dozens if not hundreds of messages on the machine. They’d need to be listened to. Hopefully, they were all shit telemarketers who said nothing at all to the message - _oh God, the message -_

“He-ey! You’ve reached Jessie and - _c’mon..._ ”

“Max,” he listened to himself grumble his own name.

“- Rockatansky! - _and_ Solly!” Sprog had cooed loud enough for the recorder to pick it up. “We’re not home right now, so leave us a message!” 

Beep.

“Uh, hello, this is Thomas from Windows? We can see your computer has -” Max unplugged the answering machine, torn between throwing it across the room and trying to wring the message back out of it. He couldn’t record it on his phone while he was calling, and he wouldn’t dare ask someone to call the house so he could when they’d easily put two and two together. His instinct as a response was to plug the machine back in, call and listen again, so he did - again, and again, and again.

Max knew it was bad for him. He knew that he’d regret the moment he couldn’t listen to it again. It couldn’t be the message forever, that was for sure. Allowing for it to remain would be a clear-cut message to himself and anyone who called and failed to reach him that he was still grieving, still couldn’t get over it. He tried to tell himself that no one had any room to judge him, but had to admit it wouldn’t look good. Max hadn’t lived in the house for months, if not years, and from the outside it would seem as though he had only come home to wallow there. 

Keeping the message would disregard all the effort he had done to _ghost-proof_ the house in an attempt to steel himself against memories of his family. If the message remained, it would freshen the wound even if he picked up before it played; he’d remember it was there, and the thought of their voices - _them, together_ \- would no doubt bring him back every single time. In the end, it would be best if it were gone.

After a pause, Max dialed the number for the house and played the message one more time. 

He’d kill to be there, to go back in time to when they were recording it. “Max,” he even repeated his name along with the recording in some vain hope that he’d open his eyes and be there. It was an undeniably better time, something he’d give everything and then some to return to. He’d burn like Goose if it meant waking up with her at his side, but he knew he never would.

It was tough to get up when the message ended, tougher still when he went to record a new message. “Rockatansky, leave a message,” he blurted out after failing to say anything the first few times, and didn’t bother to check how it sounded. Stepping away from the kitchen table left him drained, unwanting and unwilling to do any more. The thought of sleeping - even sleeping at the house - came seriously, but he decided to power through it. He was close to being done.

The dusting continued and finished with a distinct pile of dust below the porch. It was enough to make him consider going down and kicking it into the dirt, but figured the rain would wash it away before Dog got a chance to get to it. (Besides, if he were to go down the stairs, he was liable not to return.) With whatever power was left in him, he started to vacuum. All the dust and dirt left from moving the plants out of the house certainly called for it. Save for the nursery, he vacuumed everywhere and under everything, thankful that he didn’t need to replace the bag. 

It was surprisingly only once he was nearly done that the vacuum finally picked up something it shouldn’t have: a too-large object from underneath the master bed. However annoying it was, it wasn’t unexpected. Somehow, nothing in the house could go on without _something_ going wrong. At least this was an easy fix. He kneeled down to fetch the item out of the turned-off vacuum and was surprised to find something thin, long, white, and plastic.

_What’s a thermometer doing under the bed?_

_Oh. Oh no._ It was a pregnancy test, and it was positive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shhhh I know it's been six months 
> 
> thanks to [Jen](https://thehurriedhawk.tumblr.com/) for helpin me out


	9. Chapter 9

There was nothing left keeping him from taking the full brunt of reality. There was no work to bury himself in, no overtime to take or people to distract himself with. Not even Dog could do much good to take the edge off. Creature comforts became foreign to him, and living day-to-day once again grew impossible.

The voices in the back of his head came back, louder than what music he could bear to blast his eardrums with. They returned with renewed vigor and attacked him whenever they could - _still your fault - all still gone - still your fault - now there’s a fourth one gone - never know him - never know her - is it even yours? HAHAHAHA - is the baby yours? - hey, if she cheated, it’s not yours to worry about - but you’ll worry anyway! - and you’ll never forget -_

He could remember a moment, on the third day after coming back from the old house, when he found himself stopped inside of a store, looking up and down the liquor aisle. There’s everything there, from Bud Light to Everclear. It’s tempting to grab the highest proof and drown it all out. He knows better. Max never met a man whose problems were solved by the drink, hardly even met his father before it took him. The path that laid in front of him, if he were to take it, would lead him to the same fate. Maybe it was what he wanted, but it damn sure wouldn’t take him to the same place his family was. 

Max had decided that whatever the new house had in store for him was worth it to get away. It was somewhere else - it wasn’t the old house, and it wasn’t a place he’d have to leave any time soon, and that was just about all the criteria that he cared about. Rationally considering what rumors he had been told about the house was no longer possible. They weren’t his ghosts. There weren’t his memories that would taint any single thing he tried to do. Besides, it wasn’t as though there was anywhere else to go.

He had made hasty contact with the bank, doing his best to get his hands on the property as fast as he could. Mrs. Perkins was there to oversee the signing. Max did his best not to look her in the face for too long; he knew she wasn’t thinking much good of his decision. Probably pitied it. He didn’t need it to bother him. 

On the seventh day, the keys were his. It was tempting to go up to the house and simply look at it again, but knew that spending hours just to get a simple look-around was a waste. Max returned instead to the shack on the airstrip and wondered just _what_ life would consist of up there. He’d need a hobby. The idea of car restoration came back to his mind from the tour. Something that put his hands to work. Drawing, sculpting, painting. Good excuse to watch some Bob Ross. To humor himself, he called a cable and internet service provider to get an installation planned - as soon as possible, if possible. It was scheduled for three days later, and Max was okay with it, figuring he would have been moved there already. 

The last days spent on the airfield went as well as they could; for the large part, he packed. A great majority of his stuff had been taken into the shack, some left still in their boxes. The eighth day was particularly spartan, having packed almost everything away. With no distractions, it was almost too easy to get bored and let his mind wander back to the week prior and remember it all. 

He was damn close to wanting to forget. Forget what? - he didn’t know. He couldn’t forget without forgetting it all. The bad couldn’t go without the good, and the good couldn’t remain without leaving an ominous void of _why aren’t they here anymore?_ Thoughts of what life was like before couldn’t come without thoughts of why he’d never get back there. 

Max wanted to move on - _that_ was it. He wanted to remember his family without getting himself sick. He wanted to see their faces without seeing what they looked like in the hospital. If he could sift out the bad to keep the good, he would, but the mesh was not fine enough yet; trying to lose any of it now would mean losing it all, and he just couldn’t do that. 

There was a sigh and a shiver that came with the realization that he’d need to visit their grave again. He knew how that would go.

\- - -

Bruce had no idea what was going on, but knew he had done enough by asking Max to move. The change of mood was instantly perceptible. He was torn between offering a helping hand and minding his own business until it was unavoidable. It seemed too easy to aggravate him further, even without meaning to. In the end, he kept his distance, but still managed to be surprised when on the eighth day, Max announced that he was ready to leave in the morning.

There was no celebration, no “good luck, good riddance.” It was more awkward than anything. The two shared no words beyond Max asking haltingly for some help with his belongings and Bruce agreeing, planning to meet in the morning when the moving truck came around. It was no better in the morning, of course, especially with Dog trying to bark his way up Bruce’s back. When it was all said and done, Max departed with a firm handshake and a thanks, and Bruce was left with a suspicion that he’d never see him again.

Leaving the shack on the air strip served to make Max more nervous than anything. There was excitement and hope as well, but nowhere near the same amount. It was hard to pinpoint a reason. Maybe he’d miss what few interactions he’d have with Bruce. Maybe he’d miss the scenery - well, he _wouldn’t_ miss the flyovers. Maybe he’d miss the town. This move would take him away, just over a hundred miles. There’d be no ease of access to what was left of his life - not that he needed to come back. There wasn’t much conversation to find, and there wasn’t much desire to ever go back to the old house again. 

He did his best to enjoy the trip. Dog sure did; his head was poking out of the window and hardly ever came back in. The radio was as loud as he’d have it with Dog around, playing what had to be the last rock station that reached him before they truly crossed into the sticks. It was harsh and abrasive, something she’d never like - something he couldn’t tag to her. 

There was another rush of nervousness as they finally made their way off the highway and passed into the small town it ran through. It wasn’t a bad place. It was just a matter of realizing it as part of his new world - an essential one at that. He’d need to know the streets, the businesses, as much as was necessary to keep up with the world. Beyond that, there was very little he was required or interested in knowing except perhaps a couple of different ways around to the house.

It was another twenty minutes or so before they finally came across it and pulled up the driveway. There was a final shake and sigh as he rattled his bones and tried to calm down. _This is it._ A turning of the metaphorical page onto a new chapter - probably filler.

Max cringed as he pulled off the gravel driveway and into the grass of the lawn to let the moving truck pull in as tight as it could to the house. It was something he hadn’t thought of until he realized he was looking at the rear end of the vehicle in his mirrors. When the truck stops, he moves as quick as he can to unlock the front door, and hardly even thinks as he lets Dog into the back yard and the two fill the living room with boxes and furniture until his knee is screaming and the hold is empty, and before he knows it, the truck is gone and he’s alone.

He felt like a kid who lost his mom in the store. It earned him a hitch in his shallowing breath, and his leg gave him a horrible limp that only forced him down on the already-there couch until he could calm himself down. Max tried to shrug off whatever had taken a hold on him, but he was already in its firm grasp. It was a terrible, inexplicable panic that held him tight, and what scared him the most was that he didn’t hear anything. He had no idea where it was coming from.

His next full breath of air only came when he let Dog in from the yard, who had to gallop back from what seemed like a hundred feet away. The next move continued his distraction - Max found the box full of Dog’s stuff and filled his bowl with water that he promptly damn near drained. What came next was even better - he grabbed a red tennis ball from the collection of toys and took a chair from the kitchen out onto the stone patio. 

Dog knew the drill, and he was literally jumping with excitement. As soon as Max could get him to calm down, he showed Dog the ball and threw it to the far end of the yard. The animal was off in an instant and picked it out quickly enough from the leaves. When he ran right back, Max thought of a plan. Exhaust Dog, then run out for food. He didn’t bring much food from the shack, certainly nothing that would befit a house-warming dinner.

The ball went far once again, and Dog continued to yelp as he chased it down. It was almost familiar to Max despite the change of scenery. They could be anywhere, any time. It sure as hell was enough to calm him down from what took a hold of him in the living room. He found it easier to shake off since the moment passed; it was just too much for him to handle. The week had admittedly been a blur, and to come to a stop with nothing to distract him did nothing at all to help. 

He decided, with this breath of fresh air, to think about his next move. Out into town soon, that’s for sure, and come back with enough to survive the week - but God forbid his knee ever asked for a motorized scooter. Come back and unpack as little as possible. Dinner. Sleep. Tomorrow was a busier day, and he figured the unpacking will only continue on demand until the day after. Max doesn’t push himself. There’s no reason to.

He kept throwing the ball, and Dog kept retrieving it until he came back slower and slower. To test his knee, Max flexed it, and it felt good enough to get along. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t swell until he was properly home, and he figured he should give it no reason to start now. Max decided to send the ball out one last time, and Dog was slow enough that he could put the chair back inside. 

By the time he was back out on the patio, Dog was on the return, but something’s off. He’s not running for Max. About thirty feet out, Dog veered to the left. By the time he stopped, Dog was at the far corner of the house. It was only there where he sat, dropped the ball, and looked up into nothing waiting for the next throw.


	10. Chapter 10

Furiosa was admittedly very proud of the fact that reaching into Rockatansky, stirring his soul with her hand, finally earned her a reaction. It proved that he wasn't some shell of a human being, and that if she played her cards right, he'd be out like the rest in no time. Well, _no time_ could mean anything. She had no reason to adhere to the concept of time. Nothing about her had aged a day since she died.

She could feel the soup of his soul thicken as he tried to shake it off, but she kept right at it, and she was too good at the job for him to turn her out. Taking his breath was a good sign, and him collapsing onto the couch was an even better one. There was a moment of regret for making Rockatansky take the fall; the brace on his leg did little good to give him much more support. Still, she didn't stop there, and kept stirring. 

After a minute, it became difficult to keep at it. Furiosa knew better than to try to continue; he was going to slide out of it. Stirring took more out of her than she was getting, so she decided she'd stop then and allow him to carry on. Removing her hand from his chest was like lifting the anchor from a boat - he shot up from the couch and lumbered towards the back door. Rockatansky opened the door, let his dog in, got it some water. He crouched down beside it while it drank and kept a gentle hand on his back as though touching it would keep him immune from her.

He was right. Animals were touchy with her. Animals never did anything to purposefully put themselves here, and they were hardly ever as pesky as humans. They were innocent and would always remain bystanders. True to herself, she left the pair alone but still watched from a distance. It wasn't as though Furiosa could do anything from afar. 

It wasn't long before Rockatansky got up from beside his pet and came towards the living room again. Furiosa was careful to grant him space as he moved a couple of boxes off of the top of another, favoring his knee all the while. _Toys_ was what the side of the container said - she had no idea why she expected a child's doll before he ended up pulling out a red tennis ball and headed towards an increasingly excited dog. He took a chair with him as the pair made their way onto the patio, and from there, she had to go to the living room window to look on.

Fetch. _Huh._ As if she expected anything else. 

For some reason, Furiosa stayed and watched as he wore out the animal. It wasn't the most exciting thing in the world, but hey - it was something. The only entertainment she'd had in months. All of what else she could get would come from scaring Rockatansky and peeking into whatever newspapers he brought in. Maybe he's a music guy. TV guy. Too many other people that lived here were old, didn't care for it. Probably couldn't hear or see worth a damn. No wonder they sucked so bad.

It wasn't long before she made the decision to phase through the wall and stand outside, tired of trying to peek through the blinds and the dirty windows. There wasn't any danger to it. Rockatansky couldn't see her. Hell, all of what was going on outside, the cool breeze, the crunching leaves, the birds and the god damn - _sorry, Big Guy_ \- bugs buzzing incessantly for no reason at all but to make noise. It was new out here for him; she would blend in.

Watching the dog get tired was nearly enough to make her do the same. Furiosa couldn't get tired, of course; it would only reflect in her form and figure. While she knew she wasn't projecting, she knew that her presence was diminishing and it would be best to retreat somewhere if she wasn't going to get anything done any time soon. If anywhere, it would be out on the front lawn. The dog had the backyard, and Rockatansky was liable to want to look in and walk around every single room. Best to be out of the way. 

After so long of the two playing fetch, the dog was finally winding down. It wasn't a sprint anymore, wasn't anything faster than a trot. He was still able to pinpoint it no matter where his owner threw it, though, and knew right where to go to keep it going - _wait, where's he going?_

The dog was coming towards her. Furiosa's instinct was to see if anything interesting suddenly appeared in her spot - a bird, a turtle, some weird shadow that wasn't her, but she stood alone in her spot. The dog was coming towards _her._ She froze in place, couldn't move as she watched him drop the ball, sit, and wait. No other animal had so directly - and peacefully - confronted her before, and there was no telling how Rockatansky would react. 

The first thing he did was offer a look of concern to the animal. "Dog?" _Is that really what you named it? Dog?_ His pet looked back over at him, panting, but turned once more to stare up at Furiosa. That was enough to make him get up from the chair and make his way over, offering glances into the void space she took up. Thankfully, that wasn't what he investigated; Rockatansky crouched down next to Dog and gently took his head and looked into his eyes. 

"Cataracts?" That was the only excuse he could conjure. It was weak, and he knew it. Even the blindest dog could tell a man in a black shirt and jeans apart from bleached white bricks. If he could fool himself, he would, but he couldn't do it now. Rockatansky could only look up at her - honestly, through her - and think. She wondered if what he had heard from the real estate agent was beginning to echo back through his head.

When she made the decision to phase back into the house, Dog reacted almost violently and ran back to the patio door; Furiosa could hear him scratch on the wood. Rockatansky was quick enough to let him in, and she was wise enough to head to the front yard before Dog could find her and do anything else. 

While having Dog look for something that his owner surely couldn't see would do a great deal of distress, messing with animals - even unintentionally - wasn't something she wanted to do. Furiosa could hear the dog scramble across the wooden kitchen floor, and Rockatansky was playing along as well as he could, caring more about his pet losing the rest of its energy. It didn't take long before she could stop chasing the sound around the house, though. A peek inside revealed to her the animal panting hard as it laid on the kitchen floor. Rockatansky did its best to sooth it before re-filling its water bowl and pulling a dog bed out of the same box of toys the ball came from. 

The man's next move was to ensure he had his wallet and keys before limping over to the front door and making his way to the car. If there was one thing Furiosa would give Rockatansky, it was a compliment on the vehicle - it looked outstanding for its age, and certainly got more than its fair share of care. The engine agreed with a purr as the man turned it over, and she was almost loath to see the car go. Then again, that what was supposed to happen should everything go according to plan. 

\- - -

By the time Max got back to the house, the food was already lukewarm, and there was no arguing about it. All he could wish for was that it was good nonetheless and wouldn't kill him; considering how full the diner was, he decided he'd take his chances. It was a typical, boring meal for him to get - burger, fries, drink. However, since it was a special occasion, and because Dog was a very good (if odd) boy, Max got him some chicken strips to eat ( _share,_ he had decided after glaring at the portions).

His arrival was timed just right enough for him to collapse on the couch with his meal, Dog's own share cut into the kibble in the kitchen. The brace _had_ to come off, damn whatever perks it gave him. Today's activities finally caught up and brought along the swelling with the usual perks: immobility and pain. He didn't dare pull up the pants leg to look, not wanting to risk his appetite.

It was a struggle for Max to reach over the arm of the couch and grab his backpack, but the prize inside was worth the trouble. His laptop, he hoped, had something - _anything_ on it worth watching to fill the living room with noise. Something dumb, happy, warm - three traits that all latched onto the movies he watched with his wife and kids. 

The room was growing colder, and so was his food. Max deleted them all, Toy Story, Cars, Disney, Dreamworks, any-and-everything animated and musical, and it’s more than he can remember that he has to go through. By the time he had finished, he didn’t care anymore and picked one of the few he had left at random and let it load -

_The Matrix Reloaded._ Not even the first movie. _This is hell._

He let the movie roll anyways and finally dug into the food. It was cold, of course, but he knew that trying to heat it up in the microwave would only turn the lot into rubber. The dinner was tolerated with liberal use of the too-small condiment packets and watered-down drink, and he accepted the movie for what it was. It was noise, and it was light, though while it should have made him okay with being alone, he couldn’t help but feel like he was still watching it with someone else.

\- - -

It was confusing at first to see all of those sorts of movies on his laptop. Rockatansky didn’t have kids with him - was he a teacher? Did he work with kids? Maybe he just likes him. _Maybe he’s a pedophile,_ the thought came to her mind, and the idea of it shifted her energy and chilled the room. _Makes sense if he’s trying to get rid of anything that’ll condemn him._

Or maybe he _used_ to have kids. 

The possibility left Furiosa with no desire to find out anything about it. She had no proof of anything, instead pulling ideas out of her ass to give herself a reason to hate him, and the last thing she needed was a reason to pity him. Reeling her presence back in was her next move, but she didn’t completely remove herself from the room. For as long as she could, she’d observe Rockatansky and try to figure out what buttons to push. 

Furiosa made the decision to hold back on physically acting, at least for now. Tonight. There is always - _always_ \- later. He’d be here for a while, and the movie, the liveliest and most entertaining to come through in a _long_ time, took priority. It was stories that weren’t her own, people that weren’t anyone she knew, action that she wished could make her heart race. It was a window outside of her reality, and for as long as it was open, she’d look right through. She could only hope Rockatansky wanted to take in the sight, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rana for the rad prompt.


End file.
